


Sacrament

by fractalserpentine, HopeofDawn



Series: Sacrament [1]
Category: Transformers, Transformers (Bay Movies), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alien Mythology/Religion, Dom/sub, M/M, Plug and Play, Sparkbonding, Tentacles, Threesome, Virginity, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-18
Updated: 2012-04-18
Packaged: 2017-11-03 21:32:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fractalserpentine/pseuds/fractalserpentine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeofDawn/pseuds/HopeofDawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sentinel Prime reached up to run talon tips along the side of the young Protector’s jawplates.  “Let us hope that he proves more durable than the last.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sacrament

**Author's Note:**

  * For [femme4jack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme4jack/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Primely Parts Squared](https://archiveofourown.org/works/377506) by [femme4jack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme4jack/pseuds/femme4jack). 



(Æon file://tpr->x\\\\`**w.r.w.r.>>.x*src.x, t->x.y*src>>.x, t->x.z*src.x)  
fldppl+dxcet primus t32098r [ett+01] ;starts & [ends1] on cycle (8) 0  
[fidelity+dxcet pt394138r - nom [eax+0] ;fieldset cycle/ 11]  
fld dxcet core primus ‡‡ t123827r [ecx+0] ;socket & ends on~cycle/ 92  
r-fmul+dyset (1) pt371283r [evv+4] ;>>starts on~cycle/ 31  
fldppl dyset primus tr [ecx+12130] ;starts – nom. [& ends on~cycle 89]  
r-fealtyd-xxptd 3ptr911-1 + [eax+287638] ; set 1 crosslink [submissionclass 98779]  
  
\--The Pentateuch of Primes   
  On the Obedience of the Sword and the Shield.  
  


  
  
Sentinel Prime reached up to run talon tips along the side of the young Protector’s jawplates.  “Let us hope that he proves more durable than the last.”    
  
The creator-mecha exchanged uneasy glances.  They were artisan ranked, one and all -- the best creators in the empire.  They’d had time aplenty and unlimited resources, unencumbered access to the finest facilities.  The smallest part, sculpted by one of these mecha, was worth a thousand times its weight in energon.  And there were twelve of them working together now -- a sacred number, for it stood between primes.  As their newest creation was destined to stand.    
  
And to serve.    
  
“My Prime...” one of them started, hesitantly.  
  
Sentinel Prime waved the empty words away.  Both Sentinel and his own Protector, Signatron, had been a product of this same group of mecha.  To lose that great Protector to Tr!klcctch depredations was a blow that had no equal in devastation.  The very fabric of Cybertronian society was sundered, the people demoralized; the border colonies crumbling.  Worse, it made Sentinel himself, standing alone ... unbalanced.  Unfit to rule.  Neither this Protector nor the young Prime-select -- still integrating his final framing conversions -- could be allowed to harbor the slightest weakness.     
  
These arrogant mechlings had no idea, not the slightest notion, what hinged upon this.    
  
The slender creator-mech steeled himself.  “My Prime, no Protector has ever scored so highly.  We had to recalculate the range of the test-to-failure exams twice; he exceeded the metal tolerances of every single --”     
  
Sentinel Prime narrowed his optics.  “And yet you claim he is unready for the Sacrament.”  The newly sparked Protector watched him, optical calipers whirring faintly.  He was impressive enough, Sentinel supposed.  Big, certainly, armor already scarred and crossed with weldings, evidence of the long, hard training the mech had undergone over the past few vorn.  The newsparked mech hadn’t selected a color palette yet, was still the platinum dusky-white of layered trithyllium plating.  The Protector was a work of military art -- a hundred weapons cleverly subspaced, armor as fine as any Prime’s, equipped with bank after bank of battle and tactical computers and processing power that rivaled a score of generals.     
  
It wasn’t much to pit against the roused might of the Tr!klcctch.  And yet he would have to be sufficient -- Sentinel had little else with which to bolster the fraying borders of the empire, the decaying Pax Cybertronia.    
  
“--If the programming isn’t given time to settle, we risk--”  
  
Sentinel Prime clasped his hands behind his back.  His tone was quiet, level.  “I know what we risk.  Do you?”  
  
Silence, while the little creator processed that.    
  
Sentinel Prime turned away, crossing the fine blue marble to the vast windows overlooking Iacon.  Each block of rare imported stone lasted only a few vorn under the scrape of heavy pedes and heavier polishing, before it became worn and pitted, had to be replaced.  The stones served their purpose, were expended in service of the Prime -- that was the way, and there was honor in it.  The young Protector watched his every move, missing nothing, silent before the unpaired Prime. “Have him prepared.  I will attend to his rites as soon as I finish with the Senate assembly.”    
  
The creator-mecha exchanged looks.  But this time, there were no further protests.    
  
\--  
  
The Senate was comprised of idiots, Sentinel concluded -- not the first time that thread had crossed his processors.  So willfully blind!   They nattered on about mourning, about the Well of Sparks and all the proper rites for the fallen, oblivious to the looming threat.  But at least, in this one matter, Sentinel could expect proper obedience.  
  
The doorhatch irised open on his quarters, and Sentinel entered, trailed by Optimus Prime.  
  
The young Protector stood precisely where Sentinel had left him, this time alone, pale and simple amid the richness of the Prime’s sprawling quarters.  Sentinel indulged himself in a breem or two of careful study, looking, comparing, while Optimus Prime hung back uncertainly.  The newsparked Protector was as large as Venetron had been, bigger than Signatron, topping even Sentinel by half a helm.  He was more densely built, too -- visibly powerful, corded with flexures.  He’d been attended and prepared in Sentinel’s absence, every scrape and scuff buffed over, his plating subtly painted with ritual glyphs, silver on platinum.  Subtle seams hinted at further abilities, and Sentinel let his talon-tips trail there, down one ridged flank.  “A triple-changer, I see,” he mused.    
  
The young Protector never moved under the attention.  “Yes, Prime,” he said quietly, vocalizations a low, rolling growl.  
  
“Hn.  I am told that no Protector has ever integrated the training modules so thoroughly, nor so well.  I expect you’re ready for further challenges, is that not so?”    
  
Silence for the briefest of moments, a hesitation, crimson optics flicking briefly to the new Prime.  “I function to serve and shield my Prime,” the young Protector said slowly, obviously consulting his core coding for an answer to Sentinel’s inquiry.  Optimus shifted his weight, uncertain, looking to Sentinel for guidance.  Exactly as he should.  
  
“And so you shall, both now and after your ordination,” Sentinel nodded, reaching to cup that armored helm in both hands, a benediction.   “This is the Sacrament, the First Service. Come here, Optimus.  You should know your Lord Protector.”      
  
A moment’s hesitation, and then Optimus did as he was bid.  He stepped forward, slowly, carefully--as if he approached a wild cyberhawk and not his Protector--his optics wide and wondering.  Once close enough, he reached out to touch, the barest brush of blunted fingertips against that silvered armor … and some deepsparked unbidden instinct had the new Protector reaching back, doing the same.  Silver against crimson, platinum against cobalt, and Sentinel stepped aside, watching as the newsparked Prime and Protector learned each other anew.      
  
 _//I … I know this …//_ Optimus said, open and wondering as their fields merged, resonating in two-part harmony.  He stretched out his hand, and the Protector-- Megatron --met it with his own, razored talons brushing blunted, finely-wrought fingers, tremoring at the lightning-spark of recognition.   _//In here.  I know this … I know *you*.// _  
  
It was a feeling like no other, Sentinel knew.  He watched silently, allowing this new dyad their discovery, the incandescent moment when they rewove their binary-spun connection, their sparks pulled inexorably back into alignment, falling endlessly around each other.  Prime and Protector;  it had been so since the first Prime, and it would be until the last.    
  
A Prime always belonged to Cybertron above all else.  But a Protector belonged to his Prime, and no other.  
  
 _//Yes.//_  No hesitation now, just sharp-edged assurance, Megatron’s talons closing carefully around those fingers.  He rocked forward, paused, reached out to touch.   _//...My Prime.//_    
  
Slowly, those talon-tips stroked over Optimus’ heavy chest plating, each point drawing shivers after and impossibly intense, as if the sensory cilia bed under that tempered alloy was being stroked directly.  Optimus did not know this sensation -- was it pain?  It was nothing like having his struts lengthened, his optics replaced, his frame modified around him.   Nor was it the simple scrape of pede on deck plating, or the itching feel of incorporating a new sensor rig.  The touch, as it moved, made his backplates ache strangely, and the raised fairing along his spinal struts began to tingle as if harmonizing in an electrical field.  Optimus drew a shuddering vent, but the cool atmosphere did not seem to ease the strange sensations.  His hands were running too hot -- or was it the other’s armor?  “I... Sentinel Prime?  What...?”   _//...I... I need...//_     
  
 _//Easy.  I know,//_ Sentinel offered quickly, before the young Prime’s innocent distress could make his Protector uneasy.  A Lord High Protector could be the Unmaker himself when roused to anger -- even one so inexperienced.  Which made this one’s leashing all the more vitally important.   _//He is yours.  Tell him to go to the berth, and await you there.//_  
  
Optimus trembled, finely.  His blunt fingers traced the subtle lines and whorls of the glyphs of sacrament, painted across his Protector’s plating.    _//My Lord High Protector,//_ he breathed, a whisper directed towards that kindred and circling star, shuttering his optics as he felt that fission incandescence ripple and bow in response.   In response to him, to Optimus, and the sudden delight of that took the young Prime by surprise.    
  
“I... come with me, my Brother?  Please?” Optimus murmured, drawing his fingers along Megatron’s seams, the lightest ghost of implied pressure hinting at what he wanted.  The massive Protector shifted his weight, sharp-edged armor hissing as each plate rasped across the others, like knives.  Then he stepped forward, following the young Prime’s lead.  
  
Optimus sank down to sit on the edge of the wide platform, and the Protector sat beside him, guided by the brush of fingertips on living metal.  Sentinel watched the young Prime raise his hand to trace his counterpart’s faceplates in wonder -- and the elder Prime’s own tightened a little.  Sentinel permitted the reverent exploration to continue a few moments, then: _//he must lay back, Optimus, if he is to receive your sanctification.//_  
  
Optimus hesitated, momentarily jarred out of his reverie.  But his brother’s form, his brother’s touch drew him back like a lodestone, and he turned to the nascent Protector, lifting hands to cradle that heavy-planed helm.  “Lie back for me?” he murmured, watching every flicker of expression and emotion upon those silvered faceplates, and if his words were more request then command … well, it was an order all the same, Sentinel decided.  Optimus would simply have to learn later how to command obedience as a Prime should.  
  
The young Protector shifted easily, sinking backwards upon the wide expanse of the berth, taloned hands automatically shifting to grasp the edges of chassis and the curve of Optimus’ armored thorax.  Sentinel stirred, uneasy.  This would have been a horribly vulnerable position for most mecha, but it was only another angle for attack for a warframe.  Especially *this* warframe.  And he knew that position, had seen Signatron use that same maneuver to throw an opponent bodily over his helm, to slam him brutally down, hard enough to temporarily offline his unfortunate sparring partner.  Such strength had never been turned against his Prime, of course, but still … this newspark was far too aggressive, too grasping, to be trusted in the same way.    
  
Sentinel stepped close, one hand coming up to trace the line of the young Prime’s backstruts, gathering a charge upon his fingertips and stroking it over the tightly-sealed panels that lay hidden between heavier armor.   _//Forward,//_ he urged, pressing his successor closer. _//You were made to be together.//_  He could feel the younger Prime tremble at the enormity of that realization, even as he did as he was bid.   _//Lay claim to your Protector, Optimus;  show him the glory of his function, and the reward of his service.//_  
  
Under Sentinel’s hand, Optimus shuddered hard, shivering at that unexpected touch, the slow crawl of electrical charge down his spine and the seams there.  He could feel the plates of his back spreading subtly, a sensation almost as intensely strange as his first contact with his Protector.   _//What--//_ the young Prime began, then gasped an unsteady vent as something seemed to uncoil, shifting within him, a strange and deep-seated ache.    
  
Megatron’s talons tightened possessively on Optimus’ armor, grounding his Prime, and Sentinel realized with a start that the Protector’s igneous gaze had slid to him, optical calipers spiraled down.  Those optics were crimson as a conflagration.    
  
Despite himself, Sentinel Prime withdrew his hand from the young Prime’s back.  But the release sequence had already been started, and slowly, small panels beneath Optimus’ armor began to draw back for the first time, releasing blunt and instinctively-seeking segmented tips.  The cables spooled out, already warm with charge, their tips subtly knobbed and pitted -- packed with sensory and transmission nodes.  Each of the segmented joints still shone, glistened, the hardware so new that it still bore the gloss of the oils used in machining and incubating the parts.      
  
Optimus bent his helm with a gasp, resting his forehelm against the massively thick plates of his Protector’s chest plating.  His own hands stroked Megatron’s sides, trying to find something to grasp, to hold onto, as the full length of his thirteen cables rose up above him in a silvery and radiant halo.  The massive warframe tensed as those sinuous lengths curved, inclined downwards -- and so did Sentinel.  A Protector’s strength could tear the young Prime apart before Sentinel could even pull a weapon from subspace....  
  
But the newsparked Protector only turned his hand, watching intently as the tip of a cable stroked over the back of his gauntlet, tiny sparks of charge crackling between its surface and his armor.  Optimus looked up, optics wide, perhaps frightened by the sheer intensity, the wash of sensation from his strange new appendages.   _//I... I don’t --//_  
  
Releasing the young Prime’s armor, Megatron cupped those worried faceplates in his palm, even as he continued to lightly explore the tip of the interface cable.  His talons stroked lightly along brow and ridge of chin, smoothing the broad side of his thumb-talon over the faint ridge of blued-steel mouthparts, until the worry faded and Optimus’ optics slowly shuttered.  He moved into his Protector’s touch, his cables pushing forward, nuzzling at those lethally-designed hands--and for the first time, Sentinel saw a new expression upon those fierce, hawkish faceplates.  Instead of blankness, or distrust, or the feral concentration of battle, those mouthparts curved, just a little, in satisfied pleasure at his Prime’s response.  
  
A low, pleased hum emanated from deep within Megatron’s armored chassis, and Optimus smiled, the last vestiges of his uncertainty gone.  He pressed closer, cables wreathing around talons, stroking down transformation seams, trailing the remnants of lubricant and a gathering spark-charge with each new exploration.  Sentinel knew the feeling well; that air of familiarity, as if the pair retraced their steps down long-forgotten paths.  There was a world of discovery in each touch -- the revelation that once they had been together, once they had been one, two silvered protoforms twined together, sparks pulsing in counterpoint, with no need to know or care where one stopped and the other began.    
  
It was something he would never feel again.  But such morbid indulgences were unworthy of the Sacrament, and unnecessary for the task that lay before them all, and so he shunted that thread aside, refusing to acknowledge it.  
  
On the berth, all thirteen of Optimus’ cables were now fully engaged in exploring his Protector, stroking over every inch of his brother’s silver armor, twining around them both from helm to pede until their frames glowed with charge, their harmonizing fields spilling eagerness and emotion and possessive *want* through the room.  The power of a Prime’s arousal would have stirred a drone, much less another Prime, and Sentinel felt his own cables tighten and press against their housings in response.  
  
Optimus pressed himself against his brother’s armor, writhing now.  “Please -- please, I need...” his vocalizer crackled with a yearning he had no words to express.  He turned his helm, mouthing helplessly at his Protector’s wrist, an armored palm.  Every place he touched was electric, cracking.  And incandescent over the places his cables had passed, glowing with a blue-white halo, Saint Elmo’s fire, pure white-hot sensation.  It should have hurt, for each touch raced along his every relay like pain, but Optimus could not help reaching for more, pleading for more.    
  
Megatron’s heavy plating shuddered, shifted as he ground back up into his young Prime’s frame.  But he did not hesitate, seemed to know which code to use without ever being commanded.  Seams split, folding back to bare his sockets, all spiraled closed now.  He bore the proper thirteen, studding his chassis along sides and flanks and down his center line.  The silvery-white of his exposed protometal caught the light and the charge, gleamed, a siren call.    
  
Optimus cried out as his Protector untangled one of those seeking, crackling cables, wrapped his talons around its thickness.  And guided it to one of those tight-closed places, toying with it, teasing, rubbing the sensor nodes over his protometal until his Prime was sobbing.      
  
 _//Stake your claim, Optimus.  Command him open,//_ Sentinel sent, a whisper at the back of Optimus’ awareness, the elder Prime’s fists clenched with the effort to keep from just reaching to correct the young dyad.  Optimus did not seem even to hear.  Helm thrown back, he cried out as the aperture slowly began to spiral open -- not enough to permit him entry, just enough to tempt.  His cable flexed, trying to push deeper into that socket, only to be held still by the powerful grip of his Protector’s talons.    
  
Sentinel held back a growl through purest effort of will, his frame locked into place in an attempt to keep him from moving forward, from demanding that Optimus take his rightful place, to see this thing done *properly*.  His very presence at the Sacrament was not unheard of--but uninvited interference was.  And yet they were both so newly-sparked, so ignorant of the enormity of their every action, he found himself wanting to move forward, to place them like Feint markers, moving them to where they *needed to be*.    
  
Even in the haze of their combined charge, the new Protector’s scarlet gaze locked on his own, as if he had heard that thought--and there was a great deal more in that stare than there had been moments before.  A new awareness, a prideful challenge, perhaps … and Sentinel bridled, his field flaring subtly.  Until this new dyad ascended, he was still Prime;  still the voice of Cybertron.    
  
___  
  
  
That stare held, neither of them willing to look away--until Optimus, driven to desperation and beyond, arched over his Protector with a ragged, half-laughing cry.  “... enough, my brother!”  He leaned forward, pressing his forehelm to that of his Protector, still smiling, even as he shuddered with unspent charge, his cables pressing forward, seeking the still-sealed sockets that denied them entrance.  “H--have we not waited long enough?” he murmured, deepest desire and laughter both washing warmly through his field.  “Let me in, my Protector… please, please...”    
  
Megatron’s talons tightened briefly, clasping his Prime close--then silently, he guided the cable he held into position, letting it nuzzle against bared protometal, sparking with energy.  With a shudder, the last bit of armor that guarded the socket spiralled open, welcoming the waiting interloper--and Optimus pushed the tip of his cable home, sensory nodules rubbing against hot charged metal as they twisted, breaching the tight ring of calipers, snaking deep, socketing into place.  
  
And for the first time, Megatron hissed in an indrawn vent, a harsh sound, frame arching up under the weight of his Prime, twisting with doubled sensation.  A spark of pain, metal scraping over new-cast metal, filamentous internal seals tearing.  And then the cable found its place, sensors matched and pressed together, and the world was nothing but bliss.  White shock flooded his--their--vision, sensations shared and redoubled, searing through that dedicated connection, consuming all lesser input in its wake, swamping it all with pleasure.     
  
Optimus’ seeking cables nudged, pressed against more of his Protector’s warmed sockets, and the young Prime could no more keep himself from begging -- half-murmured words that cast dignity aside, a stream of glyphs bespeaking _need/want/adoration_  -- than he could have halted Cybertron’s spin.  The pleas were soothing, arousing, a tangible expression of this Prime’s need for *him*--and Megatron’s talons tightened on his Prime’s hips, just... just keeping him there, cutting off any escape.  One by one, his sockets spiraled open, and the Prime’s cables found them, sank deep, claiming their rightful places within him.    
  
Optimus cried out, helm thrown back, and Megatron took it, swallowed that helpless pleasure and made it part of him as well, growling low and fierce as instinct alone guided his Prime’s connections, the subtle shifts, the twists and incremental movements of the cables that speared the warframe, sinking past armor, past all his defenses to his very core.  There was no way to escape that touch, his Prime’s effervescent delight, even if he wanted to.  He pulled Optimus close, platinum-white talons carving long scrapes across narrow armored hip projections, and to his fierce delight his Prime twisted, scraping his own dentae over his brother’s silver chest, straddling him and winding them close.    
  
“Do you want more, my brother?” Optimus asked, his joy bubbling up beneath the teasing words.  He leaned forward, nuzzling teasingly at a sensory fin on Megatron’s helm, and one of his lateral cables nudged even deeper, nodes twisting against Megatron’s receptors.  The resulting spike of ecstasy was almost painful in its intensity, a stabbing blade of purest sensation that impaled him through the core--and Megatron rode it, lunging upward to wrap himself around his brother in turn, greedily demanding his due with a fierce and wordless snarl.   _More!_  
  
Responding to coded-instinct deeper than conscious thought, Megatron’s armor shifted, opened.  Interleaved plates, meticulously crafted to leave no exploitable weaknesses, now petaled back to bare him to his brother.  Small outward-stretching catches extended, plating flared and split along transformation seams, every fragment and tensor of him conspiring to pull Optimus close, beyond any escaping.  Not that his Prime appeared to mind.  His frame shifted as well, limbs subtly reconfiguring, slotting alongside Megatron’s own, as if they could somehow combine, become a gestalt, become something greater than the sum of their parts.  Each new piece that slowly latched into place brought with it a new sizzling spark of pleasure;  each slide of metal upon metal a powerful enticement as electric-sparks of energy flared, discharging, dancing between them.     
  
Small shifting adjustments lifted and angled shards of plating to press alongside the other transformer’s, sensor fibers laid bare against sensor fibers.  Threads of protometal brushed, crossed, charge flowing without resistance between the two powerful frames.  Every tiny movement brought new pieces into contact, laid new wires across hidden sensors normally hidden deep.    
  
It was like being caught in a firestorm.  Every sensation was echoed, redoubled, the Prime’s pleasure in taking and the Protector’s hot core-penetrating bliss of those cables winding through him -- both were shared, magnified and experienced together.  There was no awareness left for either of them -- just this pleasure, a bliss that could last until tanks emptied and the dyad offlined from exhaustion.  Foxfire waves rose around them, mingling fields diffracting and reflecting, expanding penumbras, so intense they could be seen. And felt -- oh Primus, that aura could be felt.  
  
\--  
  
Sentinel dropped to his kneeplates, hands fisted so tightly that servos whined in protest, maintaining just enough presence of mind to order the guards away from where they stood outside the doorhatch, lest they fall to the seduction of the Sacrament.   Metal points in the room began to arc, sparks popping and jolting between nearby objects.  Sentinel Prime vented hard, and even still his core temperatures skyrocketed, unchecked.   _//Optimus,//_ he sent, grasping at control.   _//The -- final union.  Claim your right, and take his spark.//_  
  
The young Prime’s acknowledgment was distracted, muffled--fritzed about the edges with pure sensation and incoherent emotion-glyphs.  As Sentinel watched, the new dyad twisted, shifting and rising, no longer even two separate forms, but one ever-changing whole, Optimus’ helm tucked into the curve of his Protector’s shoulder, Megatron’s arms and taloned hands twined with cables, wrapped around and under his Prime’s backplates, into the opened seams of Optimus’ chassis, both enfolded into each other.  The two-now-one shifted, cables twisting and straining as Optimus tried to pull away, to regain command of himself enough to bare his spark--and failed, woven too far into his Protector’s grasp, wound tight into a net of pure sensation.  Cables twisted, pulling, and their distress rose, rippling through the haze as the charge built, and built, threatening to cascade out of control entirely …  
  
… and finally Sentinel could not stand to watch any longer.  He stepped forward, the electric field of uncompleted desire and frustrated, ungrounded charge pressing against every micron of his armor, so intense it made his sensory arrays ache, burn with the need.  Too young--they were too young, too unready, and it did not matter, for this had to be done *now*.  Cybertron could not afford to wait for them to come to it in their own time.  And so Sentinel ignored Megatron’s snarl, Optimus’ baffled distress, and joined them on the berth, his own cables uncoiling, stroking over their entwined forms with the assurance of experience.    
  
 _//Like this, Optimus,//_ he commanded, shuddering under the sensation of charged plating sparking and crackling under his cable-tips, even as he curled them around intertwined limbs and overlapping plates, tugging, rearranging.  Megatron resisted, a rumbling, warning growl at Sentinel’s intrusion vibrating through their frames;  Sentinel ignored it, twining his cables around Optimus’ own, following them down to where they were socketed into the new Protector’s frame. _//Yes--like so.//_  Megatron bucked erratically beneath them both, as if he might try to gain the upper hand--but the combined strength of two Primes held him firmly to the berth. _//His spark, Optimus,//_ Sentinel commanded again.   _//Physical union is not enough;  the Sacrament will not be complete until you have claimed him entirely for your own.//  
_  
Sentinel’s cables slipped into the vulnerable gaps of the young Prime’s chassis, living lightning coalescing around the sensor-laden lengths, white-hot bliss overwhelming -- and still only a fraction of what the dyad experienced.  Other cables twined down to the Protector’s sockets, the tight-clasped calipers already filled, and ghosted there, teasing, pressing at the delicate openings.    
  
And then twisting in.    
  
Megatron roared, a thundering, enraged cry as the sensor-dense mechanisms spread to their limits, delicate internals forced open.  It was impossible to adjust for this, to accommodate, tiny articulated joints rigid with shock, stretched to their limits.  The first of Sentinel’s cables pushed in, pebbled sensor nodes sinking through the spiraling ring, penetrating to the very core of the massive warframe, twining Optimus’ own length.  
  
More cables breached other openings, writhed inside.  Each was a sharp stab of pain, just one more echoing jolt of sensation in the linked and melded bodies already overcome with charge.  Sentinel grit his dentae.  Control was a whipping monofilament, almost impossible to grasp, cutting when he seized at it -- but somehow, somehow he managed to pulse the proper energy sequences into the Protector’s twisting frame.  
  
This time, the Protector’s scream was soundless, his body bowing, arcing, electricity flaring optical afterburn, gossamer curtains in the air.  And between them, Megatron’s chestplates folded open.    
  
The fire of that spark was not a gentle glow;  it was a sun, in fullest radiance, a lashing coronae of pure multidimensional energies that curled and struck out and pulled inward all at once.  Sentinel could feel it searing his plating, the nearest cables afire from the new onslaught--his spark was not the one this Protector’s sought, his own presence unwanted, and he knew it.  Above that optic-branding blue-white glow, Megatron snarled defiance at him and Optimus both, his scarlet gaze a lacerating heat.  
  
And then there was an answering pulse, a golden halo expanding outward like a blessing.  Entwined with his Protector, his cables helixed inextricably with Sentinel’s own, Optimus smiled bashfully at them both, his chestplates splitting open to spill forth a pulsing torrent of aureate energies.  It seared as well, a pervading heat, beating against his frame so deeply Sentinel could feel it in his protoform -- but there was no anger in it, no rejection.  Only a rueful acceptance, a shy delight and a wonder that never faltered, even as Optimus moved forward, shifting as the elder Prime had shown him.  Winding limbs closer, drawing their bared sparks together until their coronae overlapped, golden warmth enveloping that lashing blue-white light, tendrils reaching together, merging to stake an indelible claim.    
  
Spark energy whirled together, forming blinding fractalled arabesques that twined higher, tighter--  
  
\--and then, in a singular instant too small to be measured, exploded.    
  
The brutal *thump* of displaced air -- of two great suns coming together -- impelled objects from their places around the chambers.  It broke too-fine metal filigree, shattered decorative crystals, and it shook the marbled stones from their moorings.  Spark energy lashed outwards in a shockwave that scorched at Sentinel’s sensory arrays, leaving him blind to all input beyond the most basic sensations of heat and force.  It thrust him backwards, sending him sprawling to his belly and flat on the berth, repelling him from the epicenter that was a newly-formed dyad -- Prime and Protector made one.  
  
  
\--  
  
Knocked half-senseless, Sentinel was able to online his optics only after some time, and even then the image was fogged, photoreceptors flooded with winter-gold radiance.  It took him longer to make sense of the image, to make out the heavy frames of the new-made dyad, chests still pressed together, sparklight a halation between them.    
  
Optimus had drawn their merged bodies apart a little, just enough to lift his head and free a hand.  His cables were slipping slowly from his Lord Protector’s overstrained sockets, taking Sentinel’s with them, unwinding one at a time.  The tips of some were still wisped in filamentous spun metal, now torn, proof of an immaculate Protector.  Both frames shook, rocked by overloads like lingering aftershocks.  Optimus had his helm pressed alongside Megatron’s, smooth plating sliding over glossy armor as he nuzzled gently at the Protector’s subtle audial ridges, murmuring softly a string of disconnected glyphs, _-pleasure-_ and _-gratitude-_ and _-delight-_ .  His freed hand stroked lightly over the Protector’s armor, fingers swirling through the light that spilled between them both, drawing ripples in their wake, tracing over the scuffed and smeared glyphs.  
  
It was done.  Sentinel was still Prime, would always be Prime--but Optimus would now succeed him as Prime Ascendant, and eventually, bearer of the Matrix.  Megatron would take his place as Lord Protector, Cybertron’s defender and co-ruler, stepping into the empty space where Signatron had once stood tall.  He had done all he could to prepare them both;  he only hoped they would prove equal to the burden.    
  
The last of his cables slipped free, severing his connection to them both, easing the press of the twinned energies still beating against the surface of his armor.   He pulled together the tattered shreds of his control and his dignity, rising once more to his pedes, ready to take his leave--only to be caught short by Optimus’ gaze.    
  
The young Prime tilted his helm, still held securely within his Protector’s fierce clasp, and his optics were surprisingly soft.   _//Thank you, Sentinel.  For watching over us.//_  
  
Sentinel hesitated.  Then, mindful of his still-shaky balance, bowed low to them both, Prime and Protector as one, and gave the only answer he could in the face of that understanding.    
  
 _//My service to Cybertron requires no thanks, but … you are welcome, my Prime.//_  
  
With a gesture of deep respect, Sentinel turned to depart, straightening stiffly, his frame still aching with residual charge.    
  
__  
  
  
Behind him, Optimus bent his head once more, pressing blued-steel mouthparts along Megatron’s shoulder, throat, the heavy shielded cables, murmuring quiet praise and gratitude.  But the Protector’s optics followed Sentinel -- with a smoldering and silent promise, a darkly fulminating intensity.  
  
Some things, Megatron already knew, he would never forget.  His coding was unequivocal, was fully awakened now, twined spark-deep and part of him: a Protector always marked his enemies -- and his rivals -- well.

**Author's Note:**

> The Pentateuch of Primes is swiped from James Robert's fan fic "Eugenesis".
> 
> Tentacles and awesomeness in general are swiped from femme4jack's Primely Parts series.


End file.
